In Vino Veritas
by LadyShadowcat
Summary: John Watson was used to new schools. Very few, however, had felt so permanent. JohnxSherlock, boarding school AU.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I suppose I should mention a few things at the start of this. First, that I have very little shame, because there's something infinitely satisfying about school AUs. Second, I've never attended a boarding school, so if by some chance you have, then you'll need to excuse the rampant inaccuracies. And third… I couldn't resist with the cameos. With any luck they'll stop trying to take over the entire fic as I keep writing. Anyway, that said, enjoy!**

* * *

John Watson was used to new schools. He'd been to a fair share of them, with mum moving from job to job while dad was away with the military. Very few of John's old schools, however, had felt so permanent.

"Boarding school will be good for you," mum had promised. "It'll be like having a proper home. You'll get such a good education—and you'll make such good friends!"

She seemed a little sad when she said it, though.

John tried to be positive about it, partly for her. There were the obvious downsides: strict uniforms, bratty rich kids, and no girls whatsoever (John _was _of a particular age). When they'd toured the grounds back in February, though, it was hard to deny that it was a nice place.

Of course, it remained to be seen whether or not it was the kind of place that could substitute for a proper home.

John had been a little concerned to find that he'd only filled a few bags when he was packing. Was that really all his life came down to? He supposed he'd stopped collecting useless trinkets after the second or third move, finding them too difficult to carry from place to place.

At least it made walking to the second floor of the dormitory easier. Room 221, he'd been told, though he shouldn't worry if he forgot. As the administrators had mentioned, on the door to each room was a pair of brass nameplates, with the surnames of the inhabitants engraved on them.

John's previous schools would have used index cards.

He took the time to read some of the names, wondering what kind of people they belonged to. _Kirkland, Jones, Edwards, Doherty. _There were a few of these boys bustling back and forth between rooms, but they paid no attention to John as he made his way to the end of the hall.

That much was to be expected. They'd had a year to make friends, alliances, and enemies; John was a latecomer, perhaps even an intruder.

As the numbers on the doors grew higher, John took care to pay closer attention to the names. The second to last door on the left—Room 219—bore the names Hallward and Gray, while the last on the right (220) proclaimed its inhabitants as Ryder and Flyte.

And there, the final door on the left. John looked at the delicately engraved Watson, eyes drifting above it to the other nameplate. Holmes, it read. That sounded normal enough.

John reached out a hand to knock, in case Holmes was in at the moment—he didn't want to start out by being rude. However, before his hand was even fully raised, the opposite door burst open in a rather dramatic fashion.

"Are you going to stand there and wait—" The young man who'd opened the door stopped as he registered John's confused face. "Good heavens, you're not Sebastian. I'm terribly sorry."

"That's… that's quite all right," John replied, hoping he didn't look too surprised.

"Holmes's roommate, are you?"

"That's me." John offered a quick smile. "That, er, isn't a problem, is it?"

The other boy shrugged. "Depends. Most people can't stand him, but in truth he isn't so bad—there's worse types. The name's Charles, by the way. And you are?"

"John. Watson, that is."

"We guessed that much from the door," Charles laughed. "You seem all right, whatever they might say about your friend over there. You'll have to stop by later—Sebastian is desperate to meet you."

"It's very kind of you to offer," John replied. "I'll see what I can do."

"Excellent." Charles gave John a friendly pat on the shoulder, glancing back at the closed door across from them. "And best of luck to you."

With Charles back inside the room on the left, John returned to the task of alerting Holmes to his presence. His home and surrogate family for the next two months—certainly no pressure or anything.

Still, John managed a confident knock, which he had to feel slightly pleased about.

"Open," came a muffled voice from inside. John took that to mean that the door wasn't locked, so turned the doorknob and nudged it open.

Holmes was lying on one of the two simple beds, hands folded on his chest and eyes fixated on the ceiling. It made it difficult to get an idea of his appearance, but John could tell that he was tall, with dark curly hair.

"Hello," John greeted him. It seemed strange that Holmes was making no move to acknowledge his presence, but maybe his had been asleep or something.

"Mind the door," came the response. John quickly closed it behind him. "That's better."

"I'm John." Maybe if he ignored Holmes's strange manner, things would work out.

"Sherlock." It took a moment for John to realize that it was the boy's name—it was certainly an interesting one, and he wondered if there was a story behind it. "That side of the room is yours," Sherlock continued, "and I would ask that you refrain from interfering with my own belongings. There are a number of delicate materials I've brought for study purposes, and I assume neither of us is keen on an accident."

"Right." John crossed the floor to the empty bed, depositing his bags on the flat surface. He had to unpack at some point, and though it seemed like a chore at the moment, it was probably best to get it over with now rather than later.

_Everyone had bad days_, he thought as he started removing his clothes from where they'd been neatly folded. He was trying to hide his own anxiety about moving in, and it wouldn't be unreasonable to guess that Sherlock was similarly bad with transitions.

"I apologize," a meeker voice said a minute or two later, interrupting John's thoughts. "It isn't entirely your fault. I was expecting someone of a more tedious nature—they run rampant in this place, you'll find. It gets dull."

"So I'm not dull, then?"

"Father in the military, a sister you haven't seen in at least a year, and numerous schools before this one. Infinitely more exciting than most."

John frowned. "Did someone tell you?"

"It's the lack of friends that confirms it."

"Excuse me?" John turned, anger briefly flaring up inside of him. It was strange enough to hear that Sherlock knew the basic details of his life, but that comment was uncalled for.

"I'd expect you to come with photos, or even notes from friends, but you've only brought the one of your parents—the army green is quite noticeable—and you and the girl, who looks far too similar to you to be your girlfriend." Sherlock turned so that he was looking at John, a certain kind of smugness in his expression. At the same time, it was curiously devoid of cruelty, which momentarily confused John.

"How… how did you know it had been a few years?" John looked down at the photos that were still in his hands, noticing the date stamp even as he said it. The room was small enough that Sherlock could've seen the numbers from where he lay, though it was astounding that he'd paid close enough attention.

"You see, don't you?"

John nodded. "All from two photos?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "And the telling lack of more."

"That's… that's fantastic," John breathed. "You're a genius."

"An eye for observation, no more." Sherlock turned away once again, but John thought he saw a hint of a smile.

Maybe this wouldn't be so terrible after all.


	2. Chapter 2

"How charitable are you feeling at the moment?" John hazarded to ask. There was one more thing he would like before he could consider himself well-adjusted; although in that brief visit months back (when coming here had barely even seemed a reality) he'd been given a tour of the school, he was hard pressed to remember exactly where everything was.

"I never feel particularly charitable," Sherlock answered.

"Okay." John paused. "All I need is a quick tour. I can ask Charles if you'd prefer not to help me."

"That won't do," Sherlock said, springing to his feet with surprising ease. "He's an art student."

John wondered if he meant it as some kind of insult, but Sherlock said no more of it, instead gliding wordlessly out into the hallway. John hurried after him.

"The student rooms are much the same on all three levels," Sherlock said as they approached the staircase. "The cleaning staff leaves supplies in the room at the top of the stairs. They used to lock it, but a few of the boys paid them to leave it open in the evenings."

"Why's that?" John didn't see how a storage closet could be that interesting.

"It's the only way to get onto the roof of the building. I'd show you, but with people still arriving, it's best not to go up there now."

It was apparently the only noteworthy part of the dormitory, and the two proceeded outside in a more-or-less companionable silence.

Between the school building and the dormitory was an expanse of well-tended gardens, through which a wide path carved its way. The area hadn't looked nearly so appealing in the damp and frost of February.

"This is nice," John had to comment.

"It's quite popular among the poetically inclined," Sherlock replied. Sure enough, a glance around revealed more than one person sitting amongst the flowers with notebooks.

It was pure curiosity that made John glance surreptitiously at the first artist they passed, though his attempt at subtlety was lost as he registered that it wasn't _flowers_ that the boy was drawing. John couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw the boy cast a dirty look in Sherlock's direction as he tilted his paper away.

"He's only bitter because I corrected him on his knowledge of art history last year," Sherlock explained, before they were really out of earshot (to John's embarrassment).

"So are you an artist too?" It would make sense, since he'd also mentioned that Charles was an artist.

"My brother had something of an interest in famous pieces of art. I couldn't let him know more than me, so I did a bit of studying of my own."

"You have a brother?"

Sherlock cast him a sideways glance, and John realized it was a somewhat useless question. "His name is Mycroft. He used to walk these same paths."

"Do you get along well?"

Sherlock chose not to answer. John thought he could guess what that meant.

The school building was something of a relic, made of imposing dark brick and ornamental carvings placed around the doors and windows. It was at least clean and well-kept, though it did little to lessen the menacing effect.

"They've given you your schedule, I presume," Sherlock said, trying the door and finding it unlocked.

"I haven't looked at it that closely," John admitted.

"Memorize it tonight, or you'll be mocked for carrying a slip of paper around."

The inside of the building was nothing out of the ordinary; the interior was certainly plainer than the exterior, with thin corridors and smaller doors. It was nothing like the sterility of the newer buildings John had previously experienced. He was relieved to see a lack of inspirational posters taped on the walls; those had never left him in a particularly good mood, harmless as they were.

"The rooms are numbered simply enough," Sherlock explained, motioning for John to follow him down the hall to the left. "There are no surprises, so it's essentially idiot-proof."

"So if I mess up, I'll be the first?" John guessed, wondering if he should be relieved or stressed.

"No. You won't." Sherlock smirked. "If you're lucky, you won't ever find yourself in the same room as Anderson. It took him two entire weeks to learn his way around last year. I was starting to hope that he'd stay lost forever."

"Do you get along with anybody at this school?" John asked, hoping Sherlock could hear the joking tone in his voice.

"You." Sherlock looked away as he said it, and John frowned.

"Well, I'm flattered, but besides me. We just met, I don't count."

"Why should that make a difference?" Sherlock asked. "If you must know, I don't consider most people here to be my friends, nor do I want them to be."

"But you said that we…" John hesitated, wondering if he was misreading Sherlock's words. What he thought he was hearing was an offer—_you'll be my only friend_, he seemed to be saying. On the other hand, Sherlock could just as easily have meant that he was perfectly happy being alone.

"You're nowhere near as insipid and pretentious as the rest of them," Sherlock said calmly. John noticed he was avoiding eye contact.

So. Being friends with the strange-yet-genius boy who could claim no other friends of his own. John wondered if that was really how he wanted to start out the term.

In the end, though, it wasn't really a question—of course he did.

"I try my best," he told Sherlock. "Do all these maps mean this is the history hallway?"

* * *

"Thank you," John said when they eventually stepped back outside. "I guess you can go back to… meditating, or whatever it was you were doing before I interrupted."

"And I suppose you had other plans?" Sherlock replied.

"Well, not exactly," John admitted.

He was going to say more, but he found himself distracted by the sight of a delicate (but undeniably handsome) boy wandering their way, a teddy bear dangling from his hand. For a second, John thought he must have imagined it, but the scene failed to change.

"Is that…" His voice trailed off as the boy casually strode up to someone else, sliding their arms together as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And that was Charles, from across the hall.

"Sebastian," Sherlock said quietly. "One of the more interesting people around here, you'll find." There was no warmth or excitement to his voice, though.

"There's a new man in the kitchens," John overheard Sebastian saying to Charles. "He's too old to invite, so something shall have to be done about him."

"Dorian will know what to do," Charles answered.

Fate had it that their two paths crossed, and Charles grinned as he recognized John.

"I see you two are getting along nicely," he commented. John tried not to feel too irritated by heavy curiosity in his voice. "Sebastian, this is John Watson."

"Sherlock's been showing me around," John explained.

Sebastian glanced between the two of them curiously. "You're Holmes' new boy, then? You must join us one evening and tell us everything."

_Everything about what?_ John wondered. He nodded and forced a smile, though.

"And you ought to sit by us at the dinner tonight," Sebastian added. "I hear it's going to be particularly grand—do you know they've agreed to give us each a cup of wine? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing."

"Which dinner is this?" John asked, realizing he must have missed something rather important.

"The school puts together a formal evening at the start of each year, welcoming the new students and discussing all the important things we're set to do," Charles explained. "You have brought the right clothing, I hope?"

Fortunately, John had, though he hadn't expected to use it so soon. Perhaps he should have examined all the papers he'd been given a little closer. "Yes. Of course."

"We'd better hurry along," Sherlock interrupted. "Things to be done, aren't there, John?"

"I suppose." John gave Charles and Sebastian an apologetic smile, then hastened after Sherlock's already retreating figure. _Things to be done_. He nearly laughed.

* * *

**A/N: I suppose it's worth mentioning that it isn't Sebastian Moran here. I have plans for him. He'll appear in another chapter or two. **


	3. Chapter 3

Initially, John had been nervous about the fact that this was the kind of institution that even hosted such formal events. It wasn't the type of thing that he was used to, and at first he'd felt stupid in his suit. Sherlock hadn't put up a fuss, though, and that had helped to calm John's mood somewhat.

Of course, that moment of calm was shattered soon enough, as John found himself seated in the dining hall with Sherlock at his right, Charles and Sebastian across the table, and the boy who'd been drawing nudes in the garden that afternoon to his left.

He couldn't be certain, but he thought the boy sitting on the other side of the artist bore a resemblance to the subject of those sketches. Dorian, his name was, and John recognized that the boy was devastatingly good-looking.

He fit right in with the room's easily classic design; the walls were panelled in a rich wood, and portraits depicting (by John's estimation) former headmasters and dignified alumni looked down over the long tables.

Curiously, there was also a grand piano stationed in the front of the hall, but at the moment no one was sitting at the bench.

"Basil should show you his portraits sometime," Charles was saying. "They're far better than I could manage."

Basil (being the artist) only shrugged. "I'm still waiting for one piece that I can truly be proud of. Everything I've made so far isn't quite right."

"You and Charles are so modest," Sebastian sighed, cradling the singular glass of wine he'd been allotted in his hands. "I'd be quite happy to show off my talent, if I had any at all."

John couldn't deny that he'd been more or less keeping one eye on Sherlock for the duration of the evening, and he was surprised to see that Sherlock seemed perfectly at ease among the crowd of boys, as if he'd temporarily put his distaste for them aside. Still, his eyes were constantly scanning the room—a nervous habit, John would have thought, like someone searching for an exit, but that didn't match his otherwise calm demeanour.

As far as evenings went, though, this one wasn't so bad, if rather pompous. The food was quite good, John thought, but Charles informed him that the quality would be severely diminished in a month or two.

"But it's good now," John felt it necessary to point out.

"Your lack of cynicism is endearing," Sebastian told him.

"What are you looking for?" John managed to ask after Basil and Charles launched into a discussion of the art teachers (with Sebastian interjecting here and there and Dorian offering a polite remark or two).

"For?" Sherlock shook his head. "Nothing specific. I'm simply seeing what's changed over the summer for most of the people here."

"Anything interesting?"

"New pets, new girlfriends, a few broken limbs, and an exotic vacation or two. In other words, no."

"What would count as interesting?" Everything Sherlock had listed would have counted as exciting by anyone else's standards, and for a brief second John had thought it was an attempt at humour.

Sherlock smirked at John's question though. "Nothing likely to be seen among this crowd."

As far as ambiguous comments went, that one ranked rather highly. Unfortunately, before John could think of a suitable response, he was interrupted by Charles calling his name and leaning towards him.

"There's been a request from down the table—people want to know if you'll be playing rugby."

John blinked. "Oh. I suppose I hadn't thought about it."

"They're quite eager to know."

John followed Charles's gaze to a group of people not far from where they were sitting, all of them staring back with curious expressions.

"I suppose it couldn't hurt, could it?" he mused. He wasn't such a terrible sportsman, in truth; he'd played football here and there, but he'd always felt bad about leaving the team when he changed schools, so his participation had slipped somewhat.

"It's so brutal," Sebastian commented, but Charles had already passed the news of John's agreement back to the questioners. Their cheers of triumph reached their ears a few moments later.

"You'll have to be our liaison with that part of the student body," Basil remarked. "We're rather limited to the artists, I'm afraid. Even Sherlock's in music."

"Really? What do you play?" John regretted having failed to notice an instrument case back in the room.

"Violin." Sherlock's response was accompanied by a slight grimace. "Mycroft's idea. I mostly continue out of spite, to be honest."

"Oh. How so?"

"He thought I'd quit after a year of lessons. I enjoy proving him wrong."

"You enjoy proving _everyone _wrong," Sebastian corrected, which gained a few laughs from around the table.

They'd finished the main course of the meal when Dorian gently pushed back his chair, whispering something to Basil that the rest of them weren't able to catch (despite their efforts).

"Is this why he's been shut away in the music rooms all day?" Charles asked.

"They asked him to play," Basil explained. "Something to impress the new students."

Suddenly, the piano was starting to make a little more sense. When John glanced up a few minutes later, he saw that Dorian was seated at the bench, hands poised over the keys.

When they finally began to move, effortlessly gliding up and down, John understood why Dorian had been labelled as "impressive"—John couldn't claim to know much about music and its subtleties, but the sweet melody drifting through the room was evidence enough that Dorian had immense talent.

For a second, it made John feel guilty. He couldn't hope to achieve that level of ability, in music or in scholarship. What was he doing here, among these people?

In the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock move ever so slightly, and he was reminded that he didn't necessarily need to make an impression on _everyone_.

"Music you could fall in love to," Basil sighed when the song eventually concluded. John didn't miss the way he looked longingly at Dorian, or the way Sebastian and Charles locked eyes with one another.

Sherlock looked straight ahead, seemingly unaffected.

A couple of things were starting to make sense to John, and he felt his stomach turn. It wasn't that he was starting to understand a bit more about his new friends and their relationships, enlightening as that was. It was more that he recognized the high likelihood of himself ending up in that situation, nursing a growing infatuation with the boy sitting next to him.

One day wasn't enough to say for certain, but something about Sherlock Holmes was captivating. Of course it would _have_ to be the emotionally guarded, borderline outcast.

John was suddenly glad that there was still a bit of wine remaining in his glass.


End file.
